Never Gone
by Whatever Makes You Break
Summary: After losing his brother and best mate, George finds himself wandering the streets of London. Seeking solice in a local pub, he ends up with much more than a pint of ale. He discovers a girl who can ease his pain, even if it means leading him to another.


_**Never Gone**_

–

_Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,  
love leaves a memory no one can steal._

–

The rain fell so heavily that the cool droplets began to cling to his red locks, dripping carelessly down his solemn face, a face he once shared with his brother. The dreary London weather seemed cliché, almost mocking his dismal disposition. He imagined Fred would crack a joke at the irony of it all, if he was still alive that is. George swallowed the lump in his throat at that thought, a lump that had gradually grown to something the size of a grapefruit. It was becoming more and more difficult to eat, to speak, to breathe with the lump swelling in his throat. He feared it would never disappear, for no matter how hard he swallowed the stabbing-like pain remained.

The sun was beginning to set on the stormy Sunday evening, most establishments would be closing early. He noticed many signs already read "CLOSED." He thought of his own store, _their_ store. It was what _they'd _always wanted, what they'd always dreamed of having. Now George was left to live out _their_ dream, alone. It didn't fully hit him, the loneliness that is, until the funeral when he saw him lying in that casket. It took everything he had, every fiber of his being to hold himself together, to smile.

And George didn't cry at the funeral, because he knew Fred wouldn't have wanted him to. They'd joked about it once, actually. They'd even made an unofficial pact to refuse to cry at the others funeral, opting to laugh at the good times they'd shared instead. Though he didn't say it out loud, George had looked up at the sky -at Fred- and thought, "Easy for you to say, mate." When the funeral was over and George went home to the flat, the flat he had once shared with Fred, the reality hit him.

He could still here it, Fred's laugh. He could hear his infectious chuckle echoed throughout Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and within the flat they once shared. The laugh he hears is his own, and suddenly, the joy he once experienced each time a hearty chuckle escaped his mouth was gone, and he hated Fred for it. He hated him for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, he hated him for leaving him all alone, but most of all he hated him for stealing his smile.

There wasn't a George Weasley, no such person existed. There was Fred and George, the Weasley _twins_. They were inseparable from birth, George born fourteen minutes after his brother. That is where the bond began. They shared the same eyes, the same hair, the same stature, down to the last freckle. They were identical, a thin scar above George's left brow was the only physical distinction between the duo.

He'd gotten the scar when he was six, no...seven, that's right, seven. They had been playing a bout of Quidditch in the garden, and Fred had bet his twin a Sickle that he couldn't hold onto a live Bludger for more than five seconds. George won the bet with a respectable twelve consecutive seconds, but he was left with a sizable gash upon his forehead when the Bludger shot him into a nest of angry gnomes that decided to retaliate by whacking him branches. Fred laughed so hard he fell off his own broom in a fit tears. George kept catching himself absentmindedly rubbing his scar, remembering the smile upon his brother's face.

That was the only way George wanted to remember Fred's face: alive. The image of his twin's expression after his death was seared eternally in his mind, his last laugh chiseled upon his features. He imagined most people didn't look so...so...alright with dying as Fred did, though Fred could never really be brought down by anything...not even death, _especially_ not death.

George didn't want to think about death any longer, or ever again. He'd had quite enough of heartache over the past few years to last him a lifetime. It wasn't just the fact of death that ate at him, it was the devastating effects it had on the survivors. He could never forget, even if he tried, the tear stained faces of his parents, his siblings, Lee, and Angelina. Angelina must have loved Fred, George concluded, that was the only logical explanation for her reaction. She was much more visibly unsettled by Fred's death than he expected, than anyone expected. George knew Fred had loved her, deep down, though he'd never admit it aloud.

She had asked George to go get a cup of coffee with her, to talk. He declined. He knew her angle, she saw George as the closest thing to Fred as humanly possible. He was his body double, he was her back-up plan. Yet, for some reason he felt sorry for her. She hadn't implied that she had a romantic motive when she asked him to talk, maybe he was wrong, maybe that was all she wanted. He felt so regretful, actually, that he had walked all the way to her flat towards the outskirts of London in the freezing cold, pouring rain. But as soon as he stood before her apartment building he couldn't bring himself to ring her bell. No, he merely dropped his head, returned his hands to his pockets and began to walk back the way he came.

He could have Apparated, yes, that would have been much more convenient. However, for some odd reason the rain made George feel human, like he was still alive because he could still feel the raindrops. He had only made it a block or so when the rain began to pour harder than ever before, making the visibility nearly nonexistent. He didn't care. Darkness engulfed the city, streetlights flickered on and off. One dim light stood out, it was above an ancient-looking pub with a faded painted sign reading "Charlotte's" above the wooden door. He suddenly wanted a pint, no, he _needed_ a pint. Maybe he could forget about his troubles after a binge of alcohol, just escape from the hell he'd been living for the past two weeks if only for a little while.

George stepped forward and pushed the rickety old door open. He'd only gotten a foot or so inside before he ran square into a blunt force.

"Oi! Watch it," the force said, a twang of a French accent audible in the abrupt female voice.

"Oh, sorry," he muttered, lifting his head upwards.

George had run into a very pretty young woman, no older than himself. She had long, wavy dark brown hair that fell just above her waist. She was quite short, but something told George that she didn't let her height deficiency stop her from flashing her personality. Her eyes were her most striking feature, green as emeralds and as bright as any eyes George had ever seen. Her features softened significantly when she took a better look at George, surveying his appearance and sorrowful expression.

"We're closing," she explained in a much more pleasant tone. "We close at eight on Sundays, early hours, you understand."

"Yeah, sure," he replied quietly, lowering his head again before turning and taking a step back towards the exit.

The young girl bit her bottom lip, moderating an inner debate in her head.

"Wait," she sighed reluctantly, shaking her head once as if she was disappointed in herself.

George froze.

"I can't very well have you catching your death," she frowned. "You can stay and have a pint until I'm done cleaning up."

"I don't want to bother you," said George, peering over his shoulder.

"Oh, shut up and sit down already," she sighed, walking in front of him to lock the door and turn off the front light. "What do you want to drink?"

"Just a pint," said George, following the girl towards the bar and taking a seat upon a stool. "I don't really care."

The sound of the rain grew louder against the large front window as the brown haired beauty drew him a chilled glass of beer and placed in on the bar before him. George picked the glass up, bringing it to his mouth, but placed the drink back down just before the rim touched his lips. He emptied his pockets, searching for Muggle money that he knew he didn't have. He usually kept a few pounds on him in case of emergencies, but he hadn't exactly had his head screwed on straight lately. The girl picked up several wet glasses and began hand drying them with a cloth. She eyed him curiously, watching him as he fumbled through several odd-looking coins.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I can't accept that," he replied, nodding at the drink. "I don't have any money on me."

"Well, I've already poured it," she shrugged. "You might as well drink it."

"Thanks," he said feebly.

"Don't mention it," she sighed.

A loud roar of thunder rang out, causing both of them to jump. George nearly spit out the first sip of his pint, the girl smirked at his slight choke on his gulp.

"You alright there...?"

"George," he replied. "I'm George Weasley."

"Harlow Farrow," she said, extending her hand for him to shake. "Yeah, it rhymes, get your laughs out now."

George smiled for just a second, for the first time in a long while and shook her hand. Then he instantly returned to his drink, sipping some more of the dark liquid. Harlow observed his mannerisms thoroughly, carelessly drying the inside of another glass. She tilted her head to the side as George gripped his drink with both of his hands, looking deep into the liquid. Harlow knew her guest had something on his mind, what was a mystery. She didn't know whether or not it was her place to ask.

"Er― are you alright, mate?" she asked apprehensively.

"I've just been having a rough couple weeks," he said softly, not looking up from his beer.

Harlow nodded slowly, clicking the inside of her cheek.

"Break-up with your girlfriend?"

George smirked, his posture straightening still without him making eye contact.

"I wish that was it," he said sadistically.

"Come now," she said, resting her elbows on the counter before him and resting her chin on the heels of her fists and sporting a hopeful grin. "It can't be all that bad."

"My brother died," he said quickly, finally looking up at her, "my twin brother, my best friend."

"Oh," was all Harlow managed to say, her grin immediately fading. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," George frowned, memorizing the golden specks inside her emerald irises.

Harlow pushed her arms off the bar and turned about, turning off the light behind her. Only a dim overhead light remained on above the pair of them, Harlow gradually made her away from behind the bar and pulled up a seat beside George on the stool. She propped her chin up on the heel of her fist again, looking over at him, her long hair falling aimlessly before her shoulder. George's eyes remained glued to his hands, unwilling or unable to look at his sole companion.

"You know, it gets easier," Harlow whispered kindly after a few more moments of silence.

"What does?"

"Living," said Harlow, "without him."

"And how would you know?" he asked in a tone that came off much nastier than he intended.

"Well, I own a bar called "Charlotte's," you do the math," she replied.

"You own this place?"

"Surprised someone so young owns their own business?" she asked.

"Not in the slightest," he smirked slightly, thinking of his own establishment.

"Well, I do, and I named the place after my sister, Charlotte, she was a year older than me," said Harlow.

"She passed away?"

"Sort of," Harlow shrugged.

"How can someone sort of―?"

"The people we care about are never really gone," said Harlow, smiling slyly.

"That's an immature perspective," George scoffed.

"So?" she shrugged. "Aren't we all a bit immature? Besides, if being immature means I keep the memory of Charlotte alive then go ahead and say whatever you want."

"You don't understand," George objected. "Fred, my brother, was my best friend in the entire world. He died suddenly, it wasn't expected―"

"George, my sister was killed in a car accident when I was sixteen, just after we moved here from France," said Harlow, her accent's origin revealing itself. "I know what it feels like to lose the one person you care about above all others in a blink of an eye, and I know firsthand how alone you feel right now."

"And?"

"And that feeling never completely goes away," she said gently.

"Thanks for the pick me up," he frowned.

"I'm not telling you this to hurt you," said Harlow. "I'm just telling you what I wish someone would have told me four years ago."

"That this gut-wrenching feeling will never go away?" he snapped. "That's just what I want to hear."

"No, it won't," she said tenderly, "but each day that goes by, the pain lessens a little more."

"Great," said George sarcastically.

"Why wouldn't you want to feel the pain anyway?" asked Harlow, raising her brow. "It's pain that lets us know we're alive, makes us remember events that would otherwise be forgotten."

George spun slowly on his stool to face Harlow for the first time, tilting his head to the side, staring at her curiously. She was quite odd. He'd never met a girl like her before. She was so...so...honest. She said exactly what she thought, what she felt. It was bizarre, she was bizarre. He narrowed his eyes at her, biting the inside of his cheek.

"You're rather strange, you know?" he smirked.

"I've been called worse," she shrugged, smiling weakly.

"I really didn't expect to get advice when I came in here for a pint," said George, his smile growing.

"Ah, well it comes with the beer," she joked. "I'm running a two for one special: Buy a beer, and the advice is just an added bonus."

"I'll have to try that marketing strategy at my own shop," said George, laughing slightly. "Of course we...er―I mean, I don't sell liquor."

"Oh, you own your own business too?" she asked. "What sort of shop is it?"

"Um, it's a...um―a joke shop," he stammered.

"Wow, and you were calling me immature?" she teased, elbowing his arm playfully. "Only joking, that sounds wicked, is it in London then?"

"Yeah," he said nervously. "It's er― kind of hard to find though."

"Oh," said Harlow, suddenly feeling like George really wasn't keen on her knowing anything about where he spends his time. He noticed her change in expression and felt guilty for having to lie about what he was. He typically didn't have this problem. He usually wasn't around Muggles, especially not ones his age, especially not girl Muggles his age.

"You'll have to come by for a tour sometime," said George, knowing all too well how much of a lie that was.

"Sure," she nodded, knowing equally how untruthful his statement was.

The rain began to turn to drizzle outside the front window, making their sudden silence abruptly awkward.

"So, do you have any other siblings?" asked George.

"Yeah," said Harlow, nodding her head. "Three little brothers, you?"

"I was one of seven," he said. "Six boys, one girl."

"I bet your sister is one tough girl to grow up in a house with six brothers," said Harlow.

"You have no idea," he smirked. "You sort of remind me of her, subtract the red hair and add in the weirdness."

Harlow laughed before the room grew quiet again, this time a comfortable silence. Harlow looked away from George for a moment to peer out through the window, then looking down at her purple fingernails, before returning her gaze to the handsome redhead. She didn't smile, choosing to bite her lower lip before speaking again.

"George," she started. "If you don't mind me asking, what were you doing out in the rain all by yourself?"

"I told you," he frowned, sipping the last bit of his pint. "I've had a rough couple weeks, and I needed a pint."

"Yeah," she nodded slowly. "I know, but why were you here? Why were you on this street?"

"I don't know," he lied.

"Alright," she replied quietly. "I was just thinking that maybe that girl in the window may have something to do with it."

Harlow leaned her forehead towards the front window, causing George to spin around to meet her line of vision. The streetlights were illuminating a female figure looking inside. It was Angelina, a pink umbrella sheltering her from the rain. She appeared to be squinting to make out the inhabitants inside the pub. It wasn't shocking for her to be there, she lived just down the way after all. George half waved at her, and she returned his gesture. When he turned back around to face Harlow she had already returned to the other side of the bar. He opened his mouth to say something, to explain, but the words didn't come.

"You shouldn't get soaked now," Harlow smiled, curling up her bottom lip. "You'll have an umbrella to share."

"I'm content where I am," he replied genuinely.

"She looks upset," Harlow deducted, looking out the window at Angelina. "You should go and be with her."

"You don't understand―"

"George," Harlow grinned feebly. "Go, she's waiting."

George looked out the window again, Angelina was pacing uneasily about, peering in at him every few seconds. He couldn't leave her alone out the cold, he supposed. He gritted his teeth, feeling the lump in his throat grow from the cherry it had shrunk to into the grapefruit once again. He stood from his stool and locked eyes with Harlow, an intense stare. He didn't want to leave, but he knew he had to. This girl he had enjoyed spending a meager amount of time with was a Muggle, and no matter how much he lied to himself no sort of relationship, friendship or any other, could possibly come about because of the separation of their worlds. He blinked first.

"I'll see you," said George, unlocking the door and gripping the handle.

"No, you won't," Harlow laughed, poking fun at George's unwillingness to face the reality. "But if believing that keeps my memory alive then say whatever you want."

George smirked sorrowfully, nodding to her one final time before departing from "Charlotte's," Harlow walked behind him to lock the door after him. She then watched through the thick glass window as Angelina hugged George, nearly knocking him onto his backside. He didn't hug her back initially, waiting several seconds before awkwardly returning her embrace. She then latched onto his arm with both of her own arms, laying her head on his shoulder and leading him back towards the direction of her flat. George looked back over his shoulder at the emerald eyed girl, who unbeknownst to her, was responsible for returning the smile he had lost. She bent up her elbow and opened and closed her hand in a weak wave, mouthing "bye," and he mouthed the same.

Harlow watched until the pair disappeared into the darkness, until the rain began to pour again. She lowered her head, pivoted towards the back door, turning back once she gripped the doorknob that would lead her into the alleyway behind the pub. Frowning slightly, she pulled a wooden instrument from her apron and pointed it at the illuminated light in the center of the room.

"Nox," she whispered, causing the light to extinguish.

She returned the instrument to her apron, turned the knob and with a loud _CRACK_, she seemingly disappeared into thin air.

–

**A/N:**_ I hope you guys liked this. I've had this idea mulling around in my mind for awhile now, and I've just now decided to post it. This isn't my typical fic. I usually don't write oneshots, especially not ones like these. I was never a fan of George ending up with Angelina, so I figured I'd give another angle to his story. I hope this wasn't awkward. I may go back and rewrite it, but for now I'm OK with it. I just wanted this OC to help George deal with Fred's death be relating to him. I didn't buy the whole relating to Angelina about Fred thing because losing a sibling and losing some guy you like is completely different, so whatever J.K. That always bothered me. Anyways, if you liked it then please review. I'm debating possibly adding more chapters if I receive a positive enough response._

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_**Review.**_


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